


chasing time from hour to hour

by foxwedding



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 80's Music, Billy Hargrove Lives, Bisexual Billy Hargrove, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Diners, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gay Bar, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Slurs, Underage Drinking, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23004115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxwedding/pseuds/foxwedding
Summary: Unfortunately for Steve, Billy's really good at monster hunting.  Unfortunately for Robin, Steve's determined to matchmake.  Unfortunately for Billy, Robin's got them all figured out.  Nancy and Jonathan stand idly by, but what else is new?
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Robin Buckley/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 93





	1. Jackie Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from _What Have I Done to Deserve This?_ By Pet Shop Boys. Chapter title from _Jackie Blue_ by The Ozark Mountain Daredevils
> 
> 80's music is my writing crutch

"Jackie. Fucking. Blue." Steve shook his head disappointedly, shoveling yet another fry into his full mouth. 

Robin groaned and pushed her malt away, slumping to lay her head on the tacky tabletop. Bennie's diner wasn't necessarily a pinnacle of food industry hygiene.

"Jackie fucking _who?_ " Billy groused, snatching a fry from between Steve's index and thumb before it could pass his lips.

"Hey!" Steve yelped, shoving the blond's shoulder while the other licked the salt and grease from his own lips with a grin. "So rude," Steve grumbled, sliding the plate just out of Billy's reach as the blond leaned in for seconds. In response, Billy pushed up onto one knee in the booth, his outstretched hand following the fries until his torso was arched halfway across the table.

Billy's shirt, unbuttoned practically to the crotch, hung loosely beneath him. From Steve's vantage point, there was a clear line of sight to the ropes of scar tissue that spider-webbed the blond's chest- but _also_ to fine golden hairs peppered under his clavicles. The chain of his necklace draped off to one side, the pendant caught somewhere under the shirt. Steve forced his gaze to flit about, looking for somewhere innocuous to rest. They landed on the equally golden hairs dusting the blond's forearm, which was corded up as it held his weight evenly over the tabletop. Steve decided his own hands were the safest available option.

"God, would you both knock it the fuck off?" Robin griped, lifting her head off the cheap linoleum and wiping both hands down her face. The bags under her eyes were getting baggier. 

"I'm not even doing anything," Steve whined distractedly, frowning at a bit of crusted black blood lining one cuticle. Apparently, he'd missed it in his bathroom scrub down.

"Who the fuck is Jackie?" Billy was retreating now, throwing his weight against the back of the booth and cramming four fries into his mouth.

" _Ooohh oohh, Jackie Blue,_ " Steve singsonged, moving his shoulders rhythmically. " _What's a game, girl, if you never lose?_ "

Robin groaned and flung a cherry stem at him. "Again Steve. No one fucking knows that song."

Steve shrugged casually and flicked the stem off his shirt. "If you wanna win, you gotta lose sometimes, Rob."

Billy chased his fries with a long slurp of Robin's milkshake, returning it after with a satisfied sigh.

"Dunno what the _fuck_ you're talking about," the blond apparently decided to put his two cents in. "But, that sounds about right," he gestured towards Steve with his chin. Steve flipped him off on principle, in the likely case that Billy was mocking him. In response, Billy kissed the air in the brunet's direction. Steve rolled his eyes and looked away.

Across the diner, there were two truckers slumped over coffee and biscuits with gravy. At the service counter, two bedraggled teens and a middle-aged woman sat, all spaced two barstools apart. The three am crowd at Bennie's was grim.

"Well," Billy's gruff drawl drew Steve back. "This has been just awful, as usual." The blond was shrugging on his denim jacket, a cigarette already hanging loosely from his lips. There was a crumpled five-dollar bill next to his half-eaten cheeseburger. Nancy and Jonathan's plates had been cleared away after they'd split around two-thirty. 

The linoleum booth creaked as Billy slid out. "I'm going to go home and wash the demo-shit out of my hair. I'll see you both in-what? A week?"

"As if we'd ever get that lucky," Robin sighed, peering down into the dredges of her milkshake miserably. "See you in five nights tops, Hargrove."

Billy snorted and left with a two-fingered salute, one hand digging in a denim pocket for his lighter.

Steve returned his attention to Robin as the roar of the Camaro faded down the highway. "Look, you gotta play the game, you know? You don't play, you can't win," He explained, as if he himself had not been practically celibate since Nancy-one or two hookups in the backseat of his Beemer. Nothing _really_ satisfying. 

Robin finally shoved up. "Oh right- because it's been _non-stop_ pussy for you recently."

Steve ignored the jab. "Listen. You're my best friend. It reflects poorly on me if your game is limp-dick _at best._ "

Robin scrunched her face in disgust. "Was that necessary?"

"Absolutely. I'm trying to convey a sense of urgency here."

"There's literally demodog blood under my tits right now." That was true. Tonight had been particularly sloppy.

"She doesn't know that." Steve shot back. That was also true. They'd all changed into spare clothes in the diner bathroom before ordering. Robin frowned doubtfully back at him, so he changed tactics. "Brenda's basically a sure thing," he stated, trying to convey a sense of authority he in-no-way felt. He was almost certain about Brenda- the waitress had a Buddy Holly haircut and carried herself like Billy. Plus, she always gave Robin free strawberry-rhubarb pie on Bad Nights.

Robin picked under one thumbnail for moment before, "Should I, like, leave her my number?" It was practically scoffed. It was definitely a win.

"Yeah! I'll give you cash for mine-go pay at the register!" Steve slapped a ten on the table and scrambled out of the diner before Robin could change her mind.

The June night air was muggy, but pleasantly cool, sounding of crickets and smelling of turned earth. The low farmland across the highway from Bennie's was wide open, a bit of dim moonlight catching the even rows of potato plants that ran all the way to the woods. Steve scanned the tree line instinctively, but there was no movement. 

This time last year, he and Robin had been slinging ice cream together as strangers. Now, the dilapidated mall was no man's land. He and Robin had been hired, and soon after, fired from jobs at Family Video. Now they worked at the same coffee house, serving skinny artist types that chain-smoked Merits while thumbing ratty paper backs. Jonathan would fucking _love_ it. To Steve, it was like working at a zoo. Speaking of animals- _Billy_. Steve fished around the inner pocket of his Members Only jacket, tugging free a crumpled pack of cigarettes and flattened packet of matches. The brunet almost groaned aloud at the first hot lungful of tarred nicotine. Heaven.

Yeah, so Billy. The impossible, howling jackal of a man that had already died once, but had been apparently spit back out. He was quieter now, but only marginally. More human, but in a shapeless, hard-to-pin-down manner. Against all odds, Billy had recovered in time for his senior year, where Steve assumed he continued to reign as supreme leader. It was difficult to know to the in's and out's of Billy's life. The brunet only caught bits and pieces as the information filtered down to him through Max or Nancy.

Absurdly, Billy had managed to achieve a civility approaching friendliness with Robin, Jonathan, and Nancy. Didn't seem to like Steve any better than before though, as far as the brunet could tell. It was all still aggressively masculine shoulder checks and pointed jabs at Steve's intellect. Not that Steve even wanted Billy's friendship. It was just fucking ridiculous that Billy had buddied up to Steve's closest friends, and not Steve, despite the fact that he had much more in common with the blond than the rest.

Unfortunately for him, Billy had proved himself to be wickedly clever when it came to field strategy. The blond's usefulness was bolstered further by his sheer muscle mass and savage go-get-em attitude. After that first night in November-the one when Billy had stumbled away from a bonfire and upon the four of them-Steve, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan-barely breaking even against a pack of demodogs a dozen thick, when Billy had wordlessly caught the crowbar Nancy threw to him and started swinging, when Billy cackled like a hyena and threw a bloody arm around Steve's shoulders as he surveyed the carnage left in his own wake, alive like a beast himself, moonlight making the white line of his teeth flash-

Anyways yeah, after that first night, the blond had stuck to them like lichen, having found the newest, hottest source of excitement in their piss-ant town. And honestly, Billy lent them such a tremendous physical advantage that he'd been almost immediately accepted into their little monster-hunting Scooby Doo gang. And Steve, lifelong title-holder of 'just-not-quite-good-enough' tried hard not to let that rankle him. After all, he reminded himself, Billy already had a lifelong experience in battling monsters, according to Max. Steve let the guilt of that temper his own envy.

Billy was fucking smart, too, according to Nancy, who'd shared the majority of classes with him before graduation. He was enrolled to take classes at a community college fifteen minutes outside Hawkins come fall. Would probably become the kind of man Steve's father would just _cream himself_ to hire.

And Jesus, how horrific would that be- Billy climbing the ranks of his father's company with his easy charm, probably looking like a motherfucker in a tailored suit with that jackal's grin. While Steve played armchair psychologist to pseudo-intellectuals across an espresso bar in the arts district. _Arthouse faggots_ , that's probably what his father would call them, he mused sullenly. 

Steve crushed the remainder of his cigarette under one boot as Robin exited the diner.

"Well?" he inquired expectantly. She'd been in there more than a few minutes.

Robin rolled her eyes and bounced on the balls of her feet. "Gave her the number. Don't know, we'll see."

"Atta girl." Steve swung his car keys around an index finger as they trekked to his Beemer. 

He dropped into the driver's seat with a long exhale, rubbing his eyes with the palms before checking the rear-view window. It was 3:30 on the dashboard clock. Steve stared at the numbers incomprehensibly.

"We have work in three hours," he announced finally. When Robin didn't respond he reasoned, "I'll just drive there now. We can sleep in the car when we park."

Once he'd pulled onto the asphalt, Robin spoke up. "You think she'll call?" Her voice was groggy, well on her way to falling asleep.

"I dunno," the brunet answered honestly. "But we'll be back within the week either way."

Dawn was a stone's throw away and Steve gunned it, racing the last bit of night back to Hawkins proper.


	2. Little Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robin's POV. Chapter title from _Little Lies_ by Fleetwood Mac. _Rubyfruit Jungle_ by Rita Mae Brown and _Giovanni's Room_ by James Baldwin.

So, Brenda didn't call, which Robin was neither relieved nor disappointed about, she told herself. Small town status quo. At least her little gamble had made Steve happy. The brunet was doing this new thing where, instead of focusing on his own romantic life- which Robin had a few poignant theories about- he was fixating on Robin's. It was fine, except that she fucking hated it and wished he'd stop.

Today, their shifts were staggered so that she was off two hours before Steve, while Steve got stuck closing the shop with their manager, fucking Doug. This time of day, the coffeehouse was populated mainly by insufferable poet-types sporting Jonathan Byers haircuts and threadbare cigarette jeans. But Steve was her ride home, so Robin settled into one of the many worn, upholstered couches that peppered the place. Also, Nancy had called them all up last night to inform them they'd be meeting in the afternoon.

The first time she'd been dragged into this ridiculous bullshit- after Starcourt, of course- had been a rescue mission by Steve, Jonathan, and herself to retrieve Nancy after the brunette had gone off to scout the woods alone. In retrospect, Robin doubted she'd been much help at all, seeing as she'd vomited after beating her first demodog to death, and then cried quietly in the backseat of Steve's Beemer. And the entire time Nancy kept handing her water and tissues as though _Robin_ had been the one gone missing. Still, they kept inviting her back and she kept accepting, so. 

Really, it was a relief to be surrounded by people for whom Robin's sexuality wouldn't even ping on the radar of weird, unnatural shit in Hawkins. _Not unnatural,_ she reminded herself, _just different_. She wasn't out to any of them but Steve, but she could envision herself telling the rest, sometime in the vague and distant future.

And, most pathetic but honest of all? Robin was just happy to have friends to hang out with. The five of them were a supremely unlikely combination, bound together initially by government NDAs and then, later, several near-death experiences. Shared trauma, she supposed. 

Outside the shop, the telltale growl of a poorly muffled muscle car preceded Billy's arrival. Within the minute the blond arrived in a cloud of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, throwing his weight around to create far more noise than strictly necessary. As if anyone could miss when Billy Hargrove entered a room. Robin didn't have to look around to know that several female patrons were simpering in their seats. Some people just had all the luck.

"Buckley," he greeted, throwing down a pack of cigarettes, a silver lighter, and a paperback onto the low table in front of Robin. Shrugging out of his denim jacket with sharp, efficient movements he announced, "Get this. Carol's got her nipples pierced." The jacket was thrown haphazardly over a nearby upholstered lounge chair, which the blond promptly collapsed into.

Robin was equal parts repulsed and intrigued, and the look on Billy's face told her that he knew it. She sighed and took the bait. "Tell me you didn't fuck Perkins."

"Oh, I fucked Perkins." He was running his tongue along his teeth like he always did when he was particularly pleased with himself. Gross.

She tried to resist but couldn't stop herself. "How was _that?_ " 

"Eh," Billy canted his head to one side. "About what you'd expect." Robin had no idea what that meant but nodded in agreement anyway.

The ambient music took a sudden turn from cool jazz to Fleetwood Mac. Over at the espresso bar, Steve was pulling shots, his fluffy hair bouncing with the beat like the fucking prep he was. Doug was leaned next to him, gesticulating in the officious manner he did when he was preaching the benefits of Eastern medicine. Their fake-deep, mid-twenties, douchebag of a manager presented like some sort of rugged mountaineer-all brawn and flannel and Yogi wisdom-despite his hiking boots baring not a single scuff. It seemed to work for Steve, though, who giddily ate up the Doug's attention and eyed the guy's broad physique whenever he was restocking. Robin sincerely doubted Steve was aware he was doing this. Worse, Doug had a steady girlfriend, yet continued to flirt with Steve in manner that was approaching non-ironic. Steve needed to be more careful. For so many reasons.

Robin leaned back and reopened her copy of _Rubyfruit Jungle_ , kicking her feet up onto the low table. In her periphery, Billy seemed to be doing the same. She looked over the top of her book discretely. Billy was reading _Giovanni's Room_. Oh. _Oh._ Huh. That was-actually not as surprising as she might have imagined. She returned to her page. Then her feet were being jostled. She glanced down; Billy was shaking the low table with one filthy boot.

"Buckley." Robin considered ignoring him, but then her legs were jolted when the table was suddenly forced two inches to the side, screeching across the wooden floor. She practically threw her novel into her lap. 

"What, Hargrove?" She readjusted her legs, crossing one over the other. Billy waited until she glanced up.

"Go get me a coffee." He nodded his head towards the counter, as though Robin didn't know her way around her own place of employment.

"No." Shit, she'd lost her page.

"Don't you work here?"

"I'm off," she answered, thumbing through the thin pages, looking for the last dog-ear crease. "I have every faith you can get your own coffee." Billy was silent for another moment. Robin already knew what this was about.

"That bitch-ass Harrington is going to spit in my coffee if _I_ order from him." There it was. 

"Not gonna get you your coffee just because you're scared of Steve," she reasoned. Billy huffed and tongued the inside of his cheek.

"I'm _not_ fucking scared of that pretty boy," he scoffed, his fingers flexing around his book. _Little lies_ , was right, Robin thought. _Sweet little lies_.

"Fine, whatever. Order from Doug then." Fucking Doug.

"I fucking will, Buckley," Billy announced smugly, as though he was somehow getting in the last word. He left his book cover down on a side table and stalked away.

Robin returned to her own book. No she didn't. She sighed and tossed her head back against the couch. Goddamn, Brenda really _did something_ for her, too. It just- it sucked. A couple weeks ago, after they'd all limped into Bennie's in a post-battle haze, wearing bits of demo-blood in their hair and nails, Brenda had wordlessly handed them clean rags and pointed to the bathroom. After that, she'd brought them coffee- on the house- and later, a warm slice of pie just for Robin. Granted, it was probably because Steve, Billy, Jonathan, and Nancy had all started bickering loudly, and Robin had ended up sharing a look of long suffering camaraderie with their waitress…

Anyway, Brenda did it all with the cool self-possession of a woman who could take care of business. Robin still wasn't certain Brenda played for her team, but if she did-wow. Robin wondered if that commanding demeanor carried over into the bedroom. Her stomach swooped at the thought.

There was a commotion over by the register. Judging by the way Steve was pushing one hand through his ridiculous hair with the other on his hip, Billy had, once again, roped him into an argument. Across the bar, the blond had one hip propped against the counter, both hands loose in his front pockets, looking pleased as punch. He was doing that dumb thing with his tongue and his teeth again, which never failed to rile Steve further. Fucking Doug stood off to one side, attempting to mediate them, which was always a futile endeavor. 

Robin pulled her book back in front of her face and forced herself to read the words on the page. She was starting to fall back into it, but then-

"Is Harrington aware that his manager wants to fuck him?" 

Robin gave up on Rubyfruit all together.

"Doubt it," she conceded.

Billy eyebrows were practically in his hairline. "You gonna let him know?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "He's a big boy. He'll figure it out."

"And you suppose that'll go over well?" The tone was light, but his eyes were narrowed.

Robin shrugged again, keeping her face carefully neutral and willing the conversation to be over. "It might." 

And then, out of nowhere, Nancy Wheeler was dropping down next to Robin on the couch, chirping her hello's. Oh, right. 

"What are we talking about?" the brunette asked, tucking a strand of hair neatly behind one ear and picking through her purse. She produced a notebook, pen, and two different colored highlighters. Robin hoped her face wasn't displaying the dread she felt.

"Your dumbass ex-boyfriend," Billy informed her, falling back into his seat and spreading his legs widely.

"Oh, are we-are we doing this again?" Nancy didn't even look up as she addressed him. She was busy licking her index finger and flipping through her notebook.

 _"Again?"_ Robin wished she'd masked the incredulity in her tone. Oh well. Billy made a show of re-engrossing himself in his book as Nancy left for the counter. Robin wasn't sure why he even bothered with the act, because not a minute later he was scoffing in the direction Nancy'd left.

"Those two are so fucking weird," Billy was shaking his head at said brunette and Steve, who were pointing at various scones inside the pastry case. "Bet Harrington's still pining for her."

Robin knew for a fact that he wasn't, but this was all none of her business. She folded her hands across her stomach and relaxed into the couch, letting her eyes fall shut and her thoughts drift. The cushion underneath her dropped as the brunette returned, followed by the sounds of Billy sipping coffee and Nancy munching away at a baked good. Peaceful.

"Are you aware your sister is trying to teach my brother how to skateboard?" She heard Nancy murmur at some point.

"Probably hoping he'll break his neck." Billy sounded proud. 

"Oh, without a doubt," Robin agreed without opening her eyes. Nancy snorted. Another long moment of silence.

When she next opened her eyes, Steve was bouncing towards them, half a banana crammed in his mouth.

"Hey guys," he chirped after a loud swallow, stretching his arms over his head and yawning into the crook of his elbow. "What's the news? Where's Jonny?"

"Working a double." Once again, Nancy was rummaging through her purse.

Steve grimaced in sympathy and perched himself on the arm of Billy's chair. They must have reached an armistice in the past half-hour.

And then, Nancy was- Jesus Christ, Nancy was pulling out a topography map and smoothing it over the low table. There were bright pink x's scattered in clusters about the paper, each numbered and dated with precise, round writing. Steve's eyes widened in panic, and he rose to return to the register, only to be held in place when Billy fisted a hand in the back of his shirt. There was a brief push-pull scuffle before Steve relented and plopped back onto the arm of the chair.

"I've marked every place there's been a sighting in the past three months and cross referenced those with the local topography," the brunette began without introduction. "I recorded the dates and what we hunted here," she continued, gesturing to the notebook lying open on her lap. "And checked the weather reports."

"Wheeler." Billy was pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please." Nancy frowned at the interruption.

Robin tried to imagine ever being attracted to Nancy Wheeler. It just- it just wasn't possible.

"From what Jonny and I can tell," she sighed, "the gate cracks wherever the altitude is lowest-where the water collects. As it gets hotter towards Summer, the openings move northwards as the waterline drops. If we follow this general pattern, we can probably predict where the next sightings will be reported."

Well _shit._ That was pretty impressive. Billy whistled lowly, mirroring Robin's sentiments.

"Damn, Nance." Steve was smiling down at the papers all prideful. "Hopper got anything for us?"

"Nope."

Billy groaned audibly. "Getting a little antsy here, Wheeler."

"Can you _please_ just enjoy the peace, Hargrove?" Steve was twisted around to look at Billy head on.

"No can do, sweetheart. Animals like us," here, the blond gestured down the length of his own body, "we were born to prowl."

In lieu of a response, Steve threw both hands up and stomped back to the counter. Billy turned his shit-eating grin on her.

"I gotta go pick the shitbird up from the skate park. Wanna ride, Buckley?"

Robin waited for the punchline, but there appeared to be none forthcoming.

"Is that a serious offer? Because fuck yes." Anything for a little change of pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up Billy's POV


	3. That's All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _That's All_ by Genesis
> 
> Content warning for excessive use of the slur f*ggot in this chapter. It's the 80s, and also Billy.

Okay yeah, fucking Carol while she and Tommy were on the outs? Not Billy's greatest move, because now he had no one to sell him mediocre weed. In his defense, _she_ had come to _him_ , which absolved him of _at least_ half the blame. She was a solidly average lay, exactly as he'd suspected, mostly because she was still hung up on her dipshit ex. The nipple piercings had been an unexpected delight, however. A real novelty for his fully-realized oral fixation.

The point was, Billy was out of weed, which meant Jonathan was out of weed, which meant the two of them were scouting the north woods absolutely sober.

"Jesus fuck, is this always this fucking _boring?_ " The blond exploded between cigarettes. There was a two-mile trail of dropped filters behind them, marking their path like breadcrumbs. He toed the smoking butt on the ground, half hoping it'd light the brush around it.

"Please don't light the forest on fire." Jonathan sounded equally dismayed about the turn of events. 

Billy nudged the filter closer to a bit of undergrowth as he pulled a fresh cigarette from pack. "No promises." His hand was jostled as Jonathan reached over to help himself to one as well. 

The sun was directly overhead, casting soft shadows through the tree canopy. In June, the woods were green and lush, full of animal chatter and heavy with wet heat. Usually ideal for a nice toke and aimless conversation about Vince Neil v. David Lee Roth. Billy liked to listen to Jonathan ramble about vocal range and pedal application, and then parrot it back to his coworkers at the garage while claiming it as an original take.

His boss- Hal, was it? Maybe Henry? At this point he couldn't ask without the risk of getting fired-his boss always let Billy tune the FM radio to rock during his shifts. The blond liked to pretend it was because the old man was fond of him, but really, Billy knew it was because everyone in this whole goddamn town was either scared of him _(all those people dead and the Hargrove boy always nearby?)_ or pitied him _(all those people dead and the father split out of shame?)_. Billy didn't know which was worse. Yes, he did.

"It's been, like, two hours, man," Jonathan was wiping sweat from his forehead with the bottom hem of his t-shirt. "Let's get to the bend and then call it." The brunet gestured ahead of them about one-hundred meters where the ravine took a sharp, blind turn eastwards. The blond grunted his acquiescence.

"There's nothing out here, Byers." Billy let disappointment bleed freely into his tone. "Harrington's sure to cream himself about it, the pussy." He glanced expectantly at the other.

"Nope." Jonathan snorted, picking up his pace and throwing his hands in the air as if washing his hands of the situation. "Not getting roped into this."

Billy halted in his tracks and chewed on his filter. "Getting roped into what?"

Jonathan didn't even look back as he scoured the creek bed. "This Sam Malone-Diane Chambers thing you've got with Steve. I'm not touching it." Billy's insides did a strange flip.

"There's no 'thing' with Harrington. I can't help it if that princess insists on being a moron all of the time." Jonathan ignored the bait. "At least tell me I'm Sam, right?" Billy yelled after him.

"Whatever you want, Hargrove!" Drifted back to him as Jonathan disappeared around the bend. Billy spit the remains of his smoke into the murky water, watching as a hoard of miniscule tadpoles swarmed it.

The thing was, after the Mind Flayer-Billy's body shuddered and immediately shut that memory down- _by senior year_ , Billy finally got it. He finally understood what King Steve fucking Harrington had been on about his entire last year of high school.

It was all well and truly _bullshit_. It was. Keggers and prom royalty and the constant posturing it required to stay at the apex of the social hierarchy- none of it mattered. Billy'd felt fucking conned. 

Even more unbelievable-no one cared about it being bullshit. Even after a third of the town had been obliterate-by Billy himself-it was still all, _'Poor Tina, her rager was a bust,'_ or _'Frankie's dick dad took his car away.'_ He'd spent the first half of his senior year in a fog, going through the motions while wishing he was dead. And then, towards the end of first semester, he walked away from a post-game bonfire, frowning at the sudden tingling in his chest and idly wondering if he was having a heart attack. 

There, not half-a-mile out, with the moon lighting up the powder snow, were four of his shithead classmates huddled together while a pack of rabid dogs closed in one them. Initially, Billy had looked around blearily, questioning if Tommy had dropped something in his drink. Then his gaze caught on Nancy's flashing one, and he instinctively caught the object flying his way-a crowbar. After that, it just made sense to, you know, start swinging.

It was practically a spiritual experience-turning himself inside out with brutal violence, releasing lifetimes of rage, half-hoping he'd die-it felt like atonement. That fucker would _never_ come after them again, not as long as Billy kept killing his dogs. And he was _good_ at it, too, _fuck you, dad_. He could keep his shitbird step-sister and her whimpering mother safe all on his own.

 _And_ , if Harrington was doing it, it must be a good thing. That whiny martyr lived his life on the high road nowadays, and Billy had been lightly toying with the idea that maybe he could be good too- not, like, a pussy, _god forbid_. But, like, a decent guy. Eh, maybe average to slightly above average. 

Once, back in January, Billy'd tried to apologize for that _thing_ two Novembers ago-back before his life had fucking imploded. He tried to explain, "that thing with the plate and your face was not cool," and, "the situation may have gotten outta hand," closing with, "So, you know, you still lied to me but yeah, I fucking overreacted, so let's just-I don't know-fucking start over, yeah?"

Harrington's response? The guy got in real close, crowding Billy with his heat and nice boy-smell and unnecessarily intense eye contact and just-"Fucking _earn it,_ Hargrove."

And it was like the ticking pilot light of a gas range. The fucking brat. The absolute audacity of that dipshit twink, demanding more, as though he truly believed Billy had any more to give. _Could_ give more, give better, than he'd already tried. Suddenly there was fire where there'd been blight, scorching drive licking up the walls of his hollow innards. Billy wanted to rock Harrington's fucking world. 

After that, it was game fucking on. Truly, Billy could say 'day,' and Steve would say, 'night.' Billy 'black,' Steve 'white.' 

It was an endless cycle for which Billy knew the impossible solution. He knew how he'd do it, too. King Steve, alone in his Loch Nora palace, stealing away in the night to throw himself at monsters, winding tighter by the day, not a single net in sight to catch him when he inevitably spun out?

Harrington just needed a firm hand, some walls to throw himself against-someone to really hold him down and _wring_ him out. Had Billy thought about being that someone? Yes. Had he maybe jacked it once or seven times to the fantasy of putting that princess on his knees? Absolutely. Did he think, for a single second, that Harrington would ever be receptive to the idea? Not a chance in hell.

That was the thing with these mid-western types-any slight aberration away from their lord and savior Reagan was considered general faggotry, full stop. No sense of nuance, whatsoever. Not like there was in California, where half of Billy's male friendships were founded on mutual handies under the pier at high tide. Maybe a blow job or two if the waves had been particularly tall-adrenaline and all that. 

Really, Billy just liked sex. He loved the animal feeling of it, the fucking push-pull, the slick sounds and earthy smell of it all. Seeing how high he could drive the pitch of his partner's voice with just a flick of his tongue, a turn of his wrist, a roll of his hips. Didn't really matter who it was with, just as long as they could give as good as they got. 

Shit, now he was chubbing up outdoors. He focused on kicking successively larger stones into a pile to create a tiny inlet of creek water by his feet.

So yeah, Billy fucked guys occasionally, but he was no _faggot._ Not like those Bay-area fags, the ones strutting around in women's heels, dying from that fag disease-

"Hargrove!" Billy's attention was wrenched back, momentarily flooded with blind panic before-no no, it was daytime, there was nothing out right now. "Hargrove-Jesus Christ, _Billy!"_ Jonathan was up ahead, one hand on a hip, the other gesturing impatiently at Billy to follow. The blond strolled up leisurely, relishing the way the brunet's frown deepened to a scowl as he waited.

Another hundred meters east, there was an outcropping of vine-entangled boulders, oily black and spotted with slick fungus. Billy's mood brightened considerably. Out the corner of his eye, Jonathan was crouched over an unfolded map, paper crinkling as he marked their location with a pencil. Billy searched the underbrush for a sturdy twig, eventually finding one about a meter long. Hooded under the shade of two adjacent rocks, there was a swath of luminous slime, about the size of a boombox. Hesitantly, he crouched and pressed one end of the branch into the viscous substance, hmm'ing when it stretched inwards like a membrane. 

A zinging pang surfaced from the depths of his chest, tingling along the ropy tissue of his scars. He jumped back, hissing through his teeth and rubbing his sternum. Goddamn, that _never_ got any easier. Jonathan was at his side in a split second, one hand hovering over Billy's shoulder should he need comfort. The blond knocked his hand away on instinct and bounced to his feet. The day was finally looking up.

He grinned at Jonathan and reached for his pack of smokes, shaking it between them. "You wanna call Nancy, or should I?"

"Goddamn it," Jonathan whispered under his breath. Billy whooped and threw an exuberant arm around the brunet's gangly shoulders.

"Suck it, Harrington."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = King Steve


	4. Never

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from _Never_ by Heart.
> 
> Stay safe out there everyone!! Corona's a bad fucking bitch, and looks like we're all in this for the long haul.
> 
> Anyways, Steve's POV

As far as Steve was concerned, the primary objective of their dumb monster-hunting gang was to obliterate demo-creatures etcetera before Dustin and the rest of the shitlings could go after them on their own. It was a constant race against time to sweep the gate-cracks under the rug before anyone else caught wind- and Hop had given them the go-ahead, eager to keep El away from the whole fucking fiasco. And because Billy, Nancy, and Jonathan all harbored similar motivations, they were collectively goal-oriented to the point of unparalleled reckless abandon.

Like right now, for instance- with Billy and Steve up against the third round of demodogs tonight, Nancy and Robin cauterizing the new crack with a couple cylinders of TNT and a well-placed M80, and Jonathan doing-who the fuck knew? Reconnaissance maybe? Steve had abandoned his car in front of the coffeeshop after work, piled into the Camaro with Robin, and let Billy drive the lot of them into the woods north of town. They had only the barest skeleton of plan and the retreat strategy was currently TBD- which, yeah fine, Steve excelled under touch-and-go conditions. 

But also, the brunet realized with a true shock of horror, there was no fucking way he didn't have a parking ticket by now. Shit, how was he gonna pay for it this time? He leapt back as another demodog lunged at him from the right, swinging his bat after it uselessly. Would this be his third or fourth ticket now? Didn't they get more expensive after a certain number? 

The demo's hind legs kicked up dirt as it pivoted to target him once more. The contours of its scaly body were caught by the lights of the Camaro's brights. Oh _shit_ -how many tickets was it before his car insurance payments increased? Fuck. _Fuck._

Steve rolled his shoulders while the creature prowled, tried to shake some blood back into his cramped forearms. His shirt was glued to the space between his shoulder blades with sweat and probably blood. 

The beast was zeroing in on him now, its body coiling into a crouch, drool dripping from the seams in its non-face, probably in anticipation of its next meal. Its back legs bulged, the muscles contracting grotesquely, and then the angled head of a crowbar was swinging down, prongs-first, and embedding into the base of the demo's skull with a wet thud. Steve grimaced at the sound. The creature collapsed limply, and Billy had to leverage his weight with one foot on the demo's neck to slide the crowbar free.

Steve stared blankly at the dead beast, viscous black blood pooling around it. Gross. "Thanks," he muttered as the blond passed out of his field of vision.

There was a gruff exhale in one ear. "Meeting. Now." And then he was being pulled backwards into the backseat of the Camaro. He scrambled along the leather upholstery to make room as Billy climbed in after, shutting the door with a force that rattled the frame. Steve dropped his filthy bat into the foot well and adjusted to face the other, head against the window, one leg bent up onto the seat.

Billy already had a cigarette between his teeth, the end of it flaring cherry red as he lit it. There was a quick inhale, a long exhale, and then the shuffling of Billy reaching behind himself to crack the window an inch. Steve's fingers twitched restlessly, and he tried inconspicuously to inhale the smoke that the blond exhaled into the space between them. 

"This is more than usual," Billy rasped, one hand rubbing absently over his mass of chest scars. 

"Uh huh," Steve agreed easily, watching the bright cherry bob in the guy's hand.

Billy continued, "like, way more." He flicked ash right onto the matted carpet, the floating embers drawing Steve's attention like a beacon. 

A beat of silence. The brunet watched a plume of smoke twirl lazily towards the ceiling. "Yep."

"For fucks sake, Harrington," he heard, before Billy was offering the cigarette, filter first, eyebrows rising like Steve was the insufferable one of the two. It rankled.

"I'm good," he refused coolly, regretting it immediately. 

"That so?" came back at him, the blond's tone dripping with the tacit implication that Steve's response was bullshit. So, Steve did what came naturally. 

"Not gonna share a smoke with _you,_ Hargrove." He doubled down.

And then Billy was crowding him against the door, pushing into Steve's space like a wall of rough denim and smoky body heat. The blond had one forearm across Steve's chest, the other balanced along the back of the driver's seat, holding the lit cigarette midair. The lines of Billy's neck and clavicles were still coated in sweat. Inexplicably, the brunet felt his own body relax into the hold.

"You really oughta be nicer to me, Harrington." The words were uttered practically into his mouth, with nicotine-laden breaths gusting over his cheeks. 

"That's not fair," the brunet croaked. Billy grinned, all teeth. Some base part of Steve preened at giving the blond the reaction he wanted. 

The damp filter was nudging Steve's mouth now, and whatever game they'd been playing, he'd lost this round. The brunet parted his lips around it, studiously avoiding eye contact as he inhaled. It seared all the way down. Worth it. So worth it. Billy shoved back with a low cackle.

After a few minutes, Steve twisted around to check the Camaro's surroundings. Still all clear-at least in the immediate vicinity. Visibility was shortened on moonless nights like this one. He fiddled with the walkie-talkie, flicked at the indicator light to check the battery, turned it over a few times in his hands. Still nothing from Jonathan-Nancy-Robin.

There was a sharp burst of movement in the car as Billy reached out to swipe at the walkie-talkie. "Would you fucking knock it off?" The blond hissed, exhaling a bit of smoke from his nose. "You're driving me up the fuckin' wall."

Steve let the words hang between them momentarily, mentally weighing his own response. They were going on minute eleven in an enclosed space, and the brunet could feel himself falling into their habitual cycle. It was like tonguing a loose tooth. No, no he wasn't going to- he was going to breathe through the compulsion, unclench his jaw, relax his hands-

"Heard you fucked Carol," Steve heard his own mouth blurt. Goddamnit, no. Why _in the fuck-_

Billy sat up, suddenly eager to converse. His cigarette had been ashed under one boot. "Sure did, baby." His grin was straight up feline, practically inviting the brunet to probe further. 

"Not sure why you're so proud of yourself," Steve rearranged his limbs, aiming for casual indifference. "That's not exactly a feat." Sorry, Carol.

Billy's grin didn't falter. "Figured it was pretty much a sure thing," he replied, licking his lips and widening the spread of his thighs, "seeing as she let _you_ fuck her. Talk about low standards." The blond was shaking his head now, his expression alight with glee, clearly anticipating an outburst.

Steve felt his lips crack a little half-grin. "Heh." It wasn't often that Billy's intel was wrong. He relished the way the other's expression shifted from delighted provocation to confused suspicion.

"I never had sex with Carol." It was a rumor that'd circulated their sophomore year, during a month-long cold war between Tommy and himself. Why? Because Steve had had sex with _Tommy._ Not that he'd ever confide that in Billy. Or literally anyone else, for that matter. 

Billy was frowning, tonguing the inside of his cheek in thought. "Tommy told me you did."

And that-well _that_ stung. Steve sighed and let his head fall back heavily against the window. "Tommy's a fucking liar." Exhaustion was turning his limbs to lead.

Billy looked-disappointed? That couldn't be right. The blond opened his mouth to retort, but his gaze caught on something over Steve's shoulder, through the window. It was always amazing to Steve how quickly the other could go from easy posturing to snapshot-frozen. The brunet's gut plummeted at the roll of guttural clicking from outside the Camaro. He reached blindly for the handle of his bat.

"Fucking round four it is, then," Billy announced gruffly, notably less enthused than he had been at the start of the night.

Steve stopped the blond with a fist around his bicep. "We can't keep doing this all night, we need to regroup and rethink." And then, to sweeten Billy to the idea, "You were _right,_ this is way more than usual." And the blond must have been strung just as thinly as Steve, because he agreed with just a nod, wiping one hand down his face.

There were two demos scavenging at the base of a tree, about twenty meters away. Steve stepped gingerly out of the car, the crackle of Billy radioing the others behind him. It went against every instinct to whistle out to them, but he knew they needed to clear the area so that Jonathan-Nancy-Robin could get back to the car.

He felt Billy sidle up next to him, right as the dogs snapped around at the sound of them.

"Anything?" Steve inquired as the creatures stalked forwards.

"Nah," Billy was clenching his jaw rhythmically. "Think they may have dropped their talkie." The niggling pit in Steve's gut got bigger. And then, as if to punctuate the feeling, a chorus of guttural howls sounded from about a mile-off. Far away, but nowhere near far enough away. The unmasked fear in Billy's expression snapped Steve to action. They needed to get Jonathan-Robin-Nancy back. They needed to _get out of here._

"Emergency withdrawl plan!" Steve gasped, already turning on one heel to get to the Camaro.

"Wha- _Goddamnit Harrington!_ " He heard behind him. 

He pulled at the driver's door with a force that threaten to tear the hinges, diving into the car and thrusting his hand into the compartment between the front two seats. Unearthing a cassette-something scrawled with Max's handwriting-he shoved it frantically into the player, using the other hand to twist the keys and bring the Camaro to life. Blindly, he pawed at the volume knob until it wouldn't twist any further, already halfway back out of the car.

He rejoined Billy just as heavy synth bells and snare drum flooded the immediate vicinity, spreading across the forest floor and echoing off trees as far as the eye could see. If the rest of them were within a mile, they'd be unable to miss the ruckus.

 _"Heart?! Seriously?_ It's like you _want_ me to lose my will to live, Harrington!" Billy sounded truly outraged. The dogs lunged. 

"It was the first cassette I grabbed, Hargrove, the fuck do you want from me?" Steve shot back, swinging his bat wildly in the direction of drooling, needle-toothed petals. A nail snagged onto a bit of wet flesh, nearly tugging the bat out of the brunet's hands as the beast leapt to one side. "Fuck!"

Steve readjusted his grip as the dog closed in on him again. Behind him, over booming electric guitar, he caught Billy's winded grunts and the thuds of pummeled flesh as the blond finished another one. If Steve wasn't so _laser-focused_ on not-dying, he would probably wonder if that's how Billy sounded when he fucked. For a brief, absurd moment, he envisioned himself asking Carol. _Absolutely not._

The demodog was coiled now, ready to spring, and Steve surmised its likely trajectory-just like predicting the pitch in baseball. Within a split second, the beast's body was arched in the air, open maw flying towards him. The brunet dug his back foot into the ground and swung from his hips. He felt, rather than saw, the bat make contact with a sickening thud, and the dog lurched sideways as the impact pushed Steve back against the hull of the Camaro. Without thinking, he pushed up, drew his bat up and around, and used the force of his entire body to bring it down onto the demo's head. There was a wet crunch, it's body shuddering once, twice, giving a whine like scared dog, before falling limp. As always, Steve's mouth flooded with hot saliva, and he swallowed back the instinct to hurl.

And then Billy was popping up over Steve's shoulder, assessing his kill. "Nice form," the blond remarked, sounding reluctantly impressed. "Still two up on you, though."

"God, get fucked," Steve managed on an exhale, pushing his sweaty hair out of his equally sweaty face.

The was a ruffle of debris at their three o'clock, and they both sprung back to attend. It was Jonathan, busting through the underbrush at full speed, a smallish demodog biting at his heels. Billy jogged forward, punting the dog back into the brush with his crowbar as if this was all a heated round of golf.

"Thanks," Jonathan gasped, folding over with his hands on his knees, spitting onto the forest floor. Steve kept one eye on the horizon as the three of them drew in ragged breaths like dying men. Around them, Ann Wilson crooned on.

_If we stay any longer, we will surely never get away_

After a beat, Jonathan wiped his mouth and unfolded. "Heart?" He asked, frowning at Billy's car. "Really?" 

"I know," Billy agreed, as if Steve was the asshole through all of this. "It's un-fucking-believable." 

Before Steve could ask of Robin and Nancy's whereabouts, the two in question were sprinting at them, wildly disheveled and slightly manic. He barely caught Nancy's, "There's fifteen behind us, go, _let's go!"_ Before they were all scrambling into the Camaro- Billy at the wheel, Nancy shotgun, Steve, Robin, and Jonathan in back. Sometime during the frenzy, Heart was cut short.

The engine roared and the tires shrieked underneath them as they peeled out in a cloud of dirt and kick-up forest debris. Steve watched in mild disbelief as Nancy chucked a full package of ground beef out the window, presumably to buy them a bit of time in the getaway.

No one spoke until they were safely onto the highway, and even then, it was Jonathan to make sure, "Bennie's right?"

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are king, baby


End file.
